


That's where you'll find me

by Lizzen



Category: Emerald City (TV 2016)
Genre: Gender Dysphoria, Other, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 19:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13106682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizzen/pseuds/Lizzen
Summary: The Beast Forever rots in a field, and that’s when suitors show up at Ozma’s gates.





	That's where you'll find me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alamorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/gifts).



> a treat for alamorn in Yuletide 2017

The Beast Forever rots in a field, his terrible eyes shut and his wings broken. There is still a steady stream of magic blood seeping into the ground from his wound where Dorothy thrust her mighty sword in his chest. It’s a horrible sight and smell, yet people come for miles to witness, to be sure that he’s dead. 

And that’s when suitors begin to show up at Ozma’s gates.

*  
Silks and chiffons and all manner of satin are on display for him; skirts that sigh when you walk or sit, and bodices that are demure (or distinctly not). Ozma stares at them all with an even indifference and lets his attendants choose. Setting his jaw, he looks in the mirror; he sees a gorgeous creature made up in the most exquisite finery. Oz’s surviving hope and regnal might.

To go into battle, a queen must wear armor. 

*  
There’s a hush that falls in the throne room at the entrance of the queen. The herald speaks in a clear voice as he lists the queen’s many titles, and Ozma reaches the throne before he’s finished. The queen raises his hand and silence reigns. 

“I am concerned that the court is wrapped up in the neverending discussion of my potential marriage rather than identifying how to better our infrastructure across our lands,” he says. “Brick roads will be built before I dress in white.” And he leans back as the whispers begin. 

*  
He finds West lying in his bed, and without much thought, he clambers in, gets her head in his lap and begins to massage her hands. A mutual comfort. She looks up, her expression pert. “Would you consider marrying me?” she asks. “I’d be a very good wife.” 

“You would honor and obey?” he replies evenly. 

“Till death,” she says, and the witch tries to mask a smile. 

*  
Riding out into the countryside, Ozma delights in wearing leather pants, though he aches in all the wrong places with this, this body of his. His people wave many brightly colored flags and sing songs for him, offer lavish dinners, and shove the most handsome men forward for the queen to see. 

_All these would-be consorts_ , he thinks with a sneer. It’s now well known that he was a boy for most of his life, a prisoner of the wicked Mombi. It’s not well known at all, at all, that he is, essentially and forever, still a boy. Despite what lies between his legs and what doesn’t. _How does a partner even begin to understand?_ , he thinks. 

*  
He and West visit the brothel together for tea with Stella, the new madam now that West has other duties. Bending the ear of both a cardinal witch and a queen is something to covet, so he watches several ladies witness and lean in as close as they can, hoping to hear a snippet of the conversation. 

And with a smile, he wonders if they’ve realized they’re talking about the finer arts of eating a woman out. “I haven’t had the pleasure,” he admits when pressed, and Stella tilts her head to the side, lifts her glass.

After, the taste of her lingers in his mouth for hours, and he shivers thinking of how West coaxed him along, her lips at his ear, speaking words of honey and steel.

*  
“I would like to court you,” a man asks of him, and despite himself, Ozma quite likes the look of his face, and invites him to dinner. It’s a very chaperoned affair, of course, but the man can spin the most impressive stories of his homelands and his adventures. Ozma quite likes the sound of his voice. 

After the sweet wine has been poured, the man is able to get close enough to whisper in Ozma’s ear. “Fairest lady, one kiss and I swear you’ll be mine,” are the words said and Ozma leans in, open mouthed. Ready for magic. 

The kiss is a different kind of conversation. Lengthy, and intricate. And as it becomes more of an argument, it’s inevitable that Ozma wins, for he kisses like a queen. “You may go,” Ozma says, when the man pulls away, looking surprised and discomforted. 

*  
East’s magic still resides in Ozma’s organs and bloodstream and the very synapses of his brain. It knocks about inside his skin, not quite looking for an escape, but looking for opportunity to be useful.

“Turn me back,” he will say in the dark watches of the night and the magic will recoil, quiet down. 

The boy Tip once made a decision, and it was a final kind of thing, to step forward into the light, to be Queen Ozma of Oz. Turning back is not an option. 

*  
The new witch of the North doesn’t curtsey as well as her predecessor, but Ozma certainly likes her council better. Her visits are as rare as Glinda’s were, but Ozma knows she spends her days healing others, not conspiring between white walls. 

And so much of Oz needs a soothing hand, a balm, after all that has happened. 

*  
As instructed by council, Ozma holds a banquet and invites six of his suitors. He wears a very revealing dress in all black in a small rebellion. West ensures that he’s covered in diamonds; in his hair, around his neck and wrists, several rings on his fingers. Pinned to his gown. “Like stars in the darkest sky,” she whispers to him and he smiles.

The six arrive in full regalia and with much pomp; eager to impress. He allows each of them to kiss his hand, offer sweet words, brag about their circumstance. Ozma keeps his face neutral as much as he’d like to laugh or roll his eyes or ask them to just shut their foolish mouths and move on. 

West, as his right hand, sits to his right and the richest of the suitors sits to his left. Ozma’s favorites fill in between the other five suitors. Champagne is generously poured.

And during the entire seven course dinner, Ozma bears the tedious conversation with a fist pressing into his knee. But before the main course, West reaches under the table, closes her hand over his fist and holds him there until his hand relaxes.

*  
“ _You_ should marry Dorothy,” West say, breezing into Ozma’s room before it’s time to go. “She’s the savior of Oz and not married yet--”

Ozma stares at her, wordless, until West puts her hands on her hips, looks prim. Decidedly silent. 

“You’re truly a wicked thing.”

Within hours, they attend the wedding in a matching display of shimmering greens and blues; a splendid display of beauty and power. But they are in no way a distraction from the bride and her groom, both handsome in appearance and glowing with true love. Ozma has never seen Dorothy so happy. 

*  
After the wedding, West follows him back to the castle, tears off her dress, and climbs naked into bed with him. Gives him one mildly interested look before immediately snoring into the pillow. 

He can’t sleep for hours after that.

*  
Jack sends him a note, and what else is Ozma to do but saddle a horse and ride to the location to meet. He’s always shy in the opening volleys; the hellos, and how are yous, and you’re looking wells. It used to be so much simpler. “I hear you have many asking for your hand in marriage,” Jack says, looking away. 

Ozma puts a hand behind his back, fingers balling into a fist. “You wish to be among them?” He remembers what it was like to be in love with this boy. 

He colors, shakes his head. “You deserve someone who you can be yourself with. Someone, not me.”

“That person doesn’t exist,” Ozma replies coldly, unkindly. 

Jack smiles the saddest sort of smile. “You know that’s not true.”

*  
It’s not quite planned, but he makes his way to West’s quarters and orders tea to be sent to them before knocking on the door. West doesn’t answer for a few minutes, and when she does, she looks pink faced and very pleased with herself. 

Ozma reels from crashing wave of jealousy, and has to stamp a foot on the floor to keep from kicking the door open, finding who she’s -- who she’s entertaining inside. 

And West watches him, carefully, before opening the door wide to reveal -- no one in her bed.

“Can’t a girl,” West says, slightly breathless, “have a little fun to herself?” And she licks her poppy stained fingers. 

And then the jealousy shifts in such a way that Ozma’s heart races. Fantasy grows on fantasy until he’s dizzy with it. Feels something that isn’t there between his legs and his cheeks burn. 

“I’ll invite you next time,” West say in a droll tone and waves in the servants carrying tea. “You coming?”

*  
The witch of the North leans back. “Why are you asking if a woman can marry the queen?” 

Ozma growls. “I asked for council, not questions.”

She arches her eyebrows before: “It’s not unheard of in Oz. It’s not unheard of in the history of your family.” She leans in. “Why didn’t you ask West this, she knows the same as I do.” And as she watches an emotion rise and fall from Ozma’s face, the witch leans back in her chair. “Ah.”

*  
Ozma throws a ball in Dorothy’s honor and they take the dance floor together first; queen and first subject of the land. It’s a brief, intricate sort of dance. Showing off their beautiful dresses and the lovely movements of their hands and feet. When it’s over and the crowd applauds, Ozma takes Dorothy’s hand and bends over it like a man would. “You’re a vision,” he tells her and Dorothy smiles. 

When he lifts his head, he can see greens and golds in the corner of his eye and his mouth opens to let out a nervous breath. Dorothy moves in, intimately close. “Take it from me. When you find your partner, never let them go,” she whispers and then steps away.

West is at Ozma’s elbow almost immediately. “I told you to marry Dorothy and you didn’t listen,” she says heatedly and Ozma gives her a look before reaching out his hand.

“Dance?” he says and West huffs before taking it. 

*  
After, Ozma stalks in his room like an angry dragon. There were times whilst dancing that their bodies were pressed against each other, form against form. And Ozma wanted, _wants_ her in ways that he doesn’t understand with this body of his.

He gets on his back and gets his hands between his legs. He’s slick as he’s ever been down there, almost a flooding mess of desire. Ozma’s bad at this part, taking care of himself so that pleasure reigns and the frustration ends. But he thinks of her; her mouth, the curve of her shoulder, the length of her neck, the swell of her breasts, the firmness of her hip in his hand. It’s all over soon and he listens to himself gasp out, the sounds of a woman truly wrecked echoing in the room. 

Tears come next and he finds no comfort in them.

*  
West arrives with the breakfast tray, piles of eggs and bacon and toast for two, and digs in without much more than a “hello, love.” Ozma watches her, thinks about it as West staking a claim with this casual intimacy. It’s nice, he thinks. Wonders if he could bear it if they existed like this forever. 

No, he thinks. No, I can’t. 

*  
A council meeting runs late into the night, and the aides are running back and forth with requests and letters and proclamations. Ozma’s exhausted and when he looks at West, she lifts herself up and claps her hands in the air. “We shall reconvene tomorrow at the queen’s pleasure,” she says briskly. 

Courtiers and aides alike look relieved and vanish as quickly as they can. 

West sits down and laughs. “Let’s run away from this place. Live in a hut.” 

Ozma echoes her laugh. “Raise chickens.” He gets to his feet, thinks of leaving for his rooms before noticing that West isn’t budging. Sitting with her elbows on the table, chin in her hands. 

“Something’s up with you,” she says, her gaze direct. He sometimes forgets that she’s the vessel of truth and solace. “I’d like to help, if I may.”

Panic rises in his belly, and he trembles. Opens his mouth to say, “I’m fine, everything’s fine.” And he moves instead. Gets close to her. He feels East’s magic tingle in his limbs as he gathers every inch of courage he has. With a careful hand, he takes two fingers and lifts West’s chin slightly, a better angle for what he wants. 

Ozma leans down and presses his lips to hers. It’s chaste sort of kiss, the gentlest kind. And yet, he feels a heat rise in his body, insatiable. 

And when West pulls away, her face is unreadable. “I’m not easily loved,” she says in the softest of voices. 

“Neither am I,” and Ozma kisses her again. 

*  
He presides over the opening of a new brick road. Ozma waves at the crowd, speaks a few words, and cuts the red ribbon. A courtier rushes to his side immediately afterwards, begs an answer now regarding Ozma’s suitors. 

“They’re eating us out of house and home, your majesty,” he says. “Have you made your choice?”

Ozma looks at West. “In truth, I have,” he replies. 

#


End file.
